Sam and Gray's Date Night 4

When we last left our guys…

“Hmm, Sammy,” Gray says like he’s pretending to think. “What are we going to do? Go bowling?” And then he starts laughing all over again.

“I was thinking,” I say, and now John-Henry and Mr. Hazard—Emery—are both watching me, and John-Henry’s grin is a little knowing, and I hear myself say, “It’d be a nice night for a walk.”

Gray

I’m not exactly dressed for a walk, but then, I’m not exactly dressed for anything except all-around fuck-boying. But Sammy looks like he wants to take a walk, and John-Henry and Emery are already sliding out of their seats, both of them trying to pretend they’re not going to race home and fuck like bunnies.

So, I say, “Yeah, babe, a walk sounds great.”

Trust Sammy to be prepared. He’s got an emergency change of clothes in the trunk—that’s an old habit from patrol. It’s just sweats and a jacket, but it’s enough; the pants are baggy, and the jacket doesn’t zip, and I look like Sammy fished me out of the drunk tank. But at least I won’t freeze my balls off.

There’s a park along the Grand Rivere with a path Sammy likes to run, not far from the high school, and we go there now. The security lights are bright and buzzing, but once we leave the parking lot behind, the sound of the water gets louder, and we have to make our way along the path by moonlight. Nobody else is out here, just the two of us. Sammy takes my hand and squeezes it and doesn’t let go. That’s a big move for Sammy, or it would have been not so long ago. But the thing you have to say about Sammy—whether it comes to holding hands or kissing or topping—is he’s a fast learner.

“It’s pretty out here,” he says.

“Cold,” I say, because it is cold, with the breeze coming off the river. The leaves are still hanging on, but when they move, they rattle against each other with a dry sound. Another week or two, and they’ll all be on the ground.

“Do you want to go back?”

“That depends,” I say. “Do I get to sit on your dick?”

Sammy laughs, and we keep walking. It’s just the sound of our steps on the pavement, and the ripple of a slow current, and then something startles off in the brush—branches rustling and snapping.

“Kids come here to party,” Sam says. “There’s an access road up ahead.”

“That didn’t sound like kids partying.”

But Sammy cocks his head, and then I hear it too. The music is too far off to make out the song, but it looks like Sammy’s right again. Of course he is. He’s the high school’s resource officer, and he does that job the way he does everything: as hard as he can, the best he can, twenty-four-seven. If Sammy says this is where kids come to party, then this is where kids come to party.

“I swear to God,” Sammy says like he’s talking to himself. “If it’s Colt and Ash…”

I laugh. “Are we on patrol, Officer Sammy?”

It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Sammy might be blushing. “No. Sorry. I just—” He smiles a little. “Hard to turn it off.”

And because the only thing Sammy might love more than me is homework, I decide it’s time to give him something else to think about. “Want to do our check-in?”

You know how you can just tell sometimes when someone is happier? It’s not their face. It’s not a smile or anything. But he stands a little straighter, and his energy changes, and God, I love him so much that sometimes I don’t know why I ever let him out of bed.

But because he’s Sammy, he says, “We don’t have to do that right now. We can just enjoy the evening.”

“Why not?” I say. “We’re on a walk. It’s quiet. It’s the perfect time.”

The check-ins were Sammy’s idea, of course. He loves a list. He loves boxes he can tick. God help him, he loves an assignment. That’s not a bad thing; it’s just Sammy. He found it on a blog, and he asked if we could do it, and who the hell am I to say what’s a good idea in a relationship?

“Three things I’m grateful for in life,” Sammy says. “This fall weather. I had a good conversation with a girl at school this week about going into law enforcement. And I think those new running shoes are helping, because my foot isn’t hurting anymore.”

“I told you to throw away those old shoes,” I say because I can’t help it—I only get to be right every once in a while, and I have to take advantage. “Number one: quiet week at work, thank God. Number two: aside from my current case of frozen tits, yep, I’m glad the hot weather is over. Number three: Foley put one of those rubber snakes in Norman’s locker, and when he found it, he screamed.”

Sammy frowns. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be grateful for bad things happening to other people.”

“Nah, Norman loved it.” I give his hand a little shake. “Tell me good things about me.”

Sammy’s too sweet to roll his eyes. “Okay, three things I appreciated about you this week: you brought me lunch, and you told me I looked handsome—”

“I always tell you that you look handsome.”

“I still like it. And you did the laundry.”

That one hits home because I am weirdly proud of doing the laundry. It’s not like Sammy needs me to do it; he can do it himself. But for some reason, he really seems to appreciate it when I throw a load in, which God, why didn’t I use that to make a joke more often?

“Morning BJ,” I say, ticking it off on a finger. “Morning BJ. Morning BJ.”

Sammy looks out at me from under lowered eyebrows.

“Fine,” I say with a laugh. “But I’m keeping one on my list because I know you hate being late.”

Sammy shrugs. “You’re more important than being late.”

He just says stuff like that. All the time. Like they’re facts he learned in a book. Only that makes it sound less, somehow. Like that’s just how the world is, and Sammy doesn’t understand how it could be any other way.

“You listened to me bitch about work,” I say. “Even when you were so tired your eyes kept falling shut.”

“I was listening.”

“And you’re here. With me. Tonight.” It’s hard to say the rest, but I manage. “When I needed you.”

His fingers tighten around mine. “I’m really glad you thought of this. Tonight, I mean.”

“Is that our relationship win for the week?”

“Definitely.”

The music is louder now. Part of me wonders if Sammy is drawn to it, like there’s some piece of him that can’t resist the chance to bust those kids. But he doesn’t seem to notice; all he says is “Do you have anything we need to clear up? Or anything you need me to hear?”

“Nope. My one thing was needing, you know, this. And you listened to me.” I blow out a breath. “What about you?”

He shakes his head. “What about next week? What do you need help with?”

“Nothing right now, but you know how it is.” And Sammy did know—the cases that blew up, the unexpected late nights, the job dragging into the weekend. “What about you?”

“Soccer tournament next weekend,” he says. “It’s going to be two really long days.”

“As long as work’s quiet, I can help out.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Well, let’s see how it goes. I can stop by, at least. Make sure they’re not running you off your feet.”

He starts to say no, but then he smiles. “That would be nice. Thanks.”

“And to pay me back, you can fuck me through the mattress.”

“Yep,” he says. “I can do that.”

Something moves in the trees, more of that rustling and scuffing. Sammy turns like he’s following the noise, but then he’s putting his arm around me, and his mouth is coming down to press against mine. He kisses me softly at first. Then a little harder, his hand on the back of my head, his tongue pressing between my lips. I’m instantly hard, tenting out the baggy sweats, pressing against him. I wanted all kinds of attention from Sammy tonight, but this is maybe the biggest part of it. And Sammy knows it, too. Knows how to make sure I feel like his entire universe is concentrated on me for a while.

“I want to go home,” Sammy whispers when he pulls back.

“Yeah.” The word is scratchy. “That sounds good—”

Thud.

Snap.

Dead leaves crackling.

Thump, slide, whomp.

And two shapes explode out of the trees and roll onto the path.

It takes me about two seconds for my brain to catch up.

Colt is groaning and covered in twigs and dirt.

Ash has leaves in his hair, and he looks like he’s trying to catch his breath.

For one second, all I can think is that Sammy was right. Again.

“Every goddamn time,” Sammy says not quite under his breath.

“Which way did they go?” a man’s voice shouts from deeper in the trees.

Another man answers, closer. “This way!”

“Hi, Officer Yarmark,” Ash croaks.

Colt wheezes, “Please don’t tell my dads.”

Drama on date night! What’s next for Sam and Gray? Will they confront the men chasing Colt and Ash? Let the boys go with a stern warning? Or take the boys home?  (That’s right! Three options this time!) Patrons will decide tomorrow!